


she is the sun

by sodonewith_life



Series: non ducor duco [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Study, Comfort, Genderbending, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, give this a chance please, i think, this is so random
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodonewith_life/pseuds/sodonewith_life
Summary: an Aaron Hotchner season 1 AU character study.aka a completely self-indulgent project that I started back in December but only just now had the guts to upload part of.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Derek Morgan, Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Jason Gideon & Aaron Hotchner, The BAU Team & Aaron Hotchner
Series: non ducor duco [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135217
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. LDSK

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. I'm really doing this. A genderbent AU/character study (I think). 
> 
> If I remember correctly, I was reading Being Erin Hotchner by LittleSweetCheeks, and my mind went "what would happen if Hotch was a woman?"
> 
> So. This is chapter 1 and likely a poorly written start of what may become a long-ass series in which I rewrite Criminal Minds with Erin Hotchner (instead of Aaron Hotchner), though if I actually upload more depends on how well this is received and if people think I'm absolutely crazy or not. 
> 
> I tried to keep things in character, but then again, I think the writers really did Hotch dirty, so there may be parts that may/may not be OOC, depending on your interpretation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dialogue is taken from Criminal Minds Season 1 Episode 6 "L.D.S.K."
> 
> I do not own anything recognizable. If I did, Hotch would have had an actual backstory that's not a few dropped hints—all rights go to CBS and the creators of the show.

“On SWAT, we broke shots down into three steps,” Hotch told Reid from behind. “One—front sight. Focus on the front sight, not on the target,” she stated, “two—controlled trigger press. Three—follow through. After the shot, you come right back to the target.”

She turned to the younger agent, “Now, what did you do wrong?”

“I didn’t follow through,” he recited as if by rote.

“Right, you came off the target to see where you hit,” it was a refrain for them at this point; the training sessions she had with the genius before his requalifications had become an annual affair since he joined the bureau two years ago.

“Hotch, my firearms qualification is tomorrow morning,” he frustratedly put the gun down and moved to take off the earmuffs. “I barely passed my last one,” he put his hands in his pockets. The unit chief put her hand on his shoulder, beckoning him backward as she took his place in the front and picked up the gun.

Reid quickly readjusted his earmuffs, realizing what she was about to do.“Front sight, trigger press,” she aimed and fired, the bullet hitting just a few centimeters to the right of the center of the head. “Follow through. You do those three things,” she said, placing the gun down, “you’ll hit your target every time.” 

She moved back again as Reid stepped back in front and picked up the gun. He fired, hitting the target’s groin dead center.

“Did Elle teach you that?” Hotch asked, sounding vaguely amused. 

Reid sighed. “They’re going to take away my gun,” he walked away to the side, resigned to his fate. 

She silently agreed with his despondent conclusion but nevertheless tried to comfort him. “Profilers aren’t required to carry.”

“Yeah?” the genius challenged. “And yet you carry two of them,” he gestured to the gun she had on her hip and on her ankle.

Hotch bent down, pulling out her backup. She aimed and fired three times, hitting dead center on the torso each time. Replacing the gun in her ankle holster, she told Reid, “When I first joined the BAU, Gideon said to me, ‘You don’t have to carry a gun to kill someone.’” 

She took off her earmuffs and safety glasses, signaling the end of her time during their session as Reid followed suit. “I don’t get it,” he was subdued in his confusion and frustration.

“You will,” Hotch assured him. She softened her tone, allowing some warmth to slip through. “Good luck tomorrow,” she squeezed his arm in comfort before leaving the gun range. Hearing the genius go back to practicing, she sighed, wishing not for the first time she knew how to train him better. _Unfortunately_ , she thought _, all I know to do is what was trained into me by hardass drill sergeants, and that’s not what Reid needs._

As one of the best shots in Quantico, she had been asked countless times to help in firearms training, but she’s always turned the offer down. With her own experiences, she was too aware that her reputation and rather brusque nature isn’t one that is ideal in an effective instructor.

She shook the unpleasant memories ( _of the harsh smell of scotch wafting into her nose from inches away, of the bruising grip on her arms, of the groping she received_ ) away as she walked into the more crowded hallways. All the warmth that she had allowed to show in front of the youngest agent bled away when she came across the first person outside the gun range, the infamous cold front she put up returning in the presence of others. 

~~~

Hotch had a sinking feeling when she walked into the BAU bullpen the next morning and was immediately met with the nervous visage of the poor agent assigned to be the messenger. Taking one look at the papers she was given, she internally sighed, already knowing that the youngest agent was going to spend the next two weeks beating himself up.

Seeing Elle at her desk, she walked over, tapping a finger on the desk to get her attention. “Reid failed the qualification.” The other agent’s eyebrows flew up before her expression settled, immediately understanding what she was being asked to do. “Try to make sure the others don’t tease him about it, yeah?” she placed a subtle emphasis on _others_ , and was satisfied to see the other woman acknowledge her request. 

Still unsmiling, Hotch nodded in thanks before making her way into her office, closing the door behind her and settling to get started on the piles of consults she had.

~~~

Hotch looked up from the case file just in time to note Morgan bending down in front of Reid before the sharp sound of a whistle pierced through the level chatter in the room. She quickly figured out what was going on, exasperated at herself for even thinking that Morgan would pass up this opportunity for light ribbing. 

“Hey,” JJ quickly put a stop to the light chatter between the team, “Franklin Park, Des Plaines, yesterday afternoon.” She passed out the casefiles to each agent as she gave a brief rundown of the situation, the air between them turning serious. “Three victims shot at a distance. It’s the third such shooting in two weeks.”

“A sniper?” Elle inquiered, only for Morgan to correct her. 

“We don’t use that word.”

“Why not?” she looked at him curiously.

JJ made a face. “The public perception is that the FBI doesn’t have an exemplary record with snipers,” she explained. 

Hotch added on, throwing a brief glance at Elle, “Besides, a sniper is a professional marksman. These guys aren’t snipers.” She tried to tone down the defensiveness, aware that none of them meant to offend. 

“Well, what do we call them, then?”

“LDSK.”

“Long-distance serial killers,” Reid helpfully expanded, meeting Elle’s gaze.

“And how many of these guys have we caught using a profile?” she inquired.

Gideon answered, reminding them of his presence. “None,” he told them, completely matter-of-fact in the face of their incredulity

“Conference room,” Hotch ordered, not looking up from the file as the team made their way from the middle of the bullpen to the conference room, where she took the lead.

“Two weeks, three shooting incidents, six victims, all shot in the abdomen,” she raised the remote, pressing a button to bring up victim and crime scene photos on the screen. “First and only fatality, Henry Sachs. Married, father of three, shot in a shopping center parking lot. Nine days later, Doug Miller and Kevin Parks were playing basketball at a community center.” Different pictures appeared on the screen behind her as she introduced the victims. “Franklin Park, four days later. Jerry Middleton, Kate Murry, and Tim Reilly. Des Plaines police have found no link between any of the victims.”

“Ballistics?” Morgan asked.

“He’s using frangible rounds which fragment on impact, making ballistics comparisons impossible.”

“The good news is that all the park victims are going to make it,” JJ tried to make some light of the situation, looking around at the profilers, “but the bad news is that none of them saw anything. However, one of the patients does have an intact bullet lodged in his spine.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Gideon prompted.

“Well, there’s a disagreement among surgical staff as to whether they can remove the slug without paralyzing the patient,” the liaison informed them.

“Well, without a useful witness or a solid piece of forensic evidence…” Morgan trailed off.

“The profile’s all we’ll have,” Hotch finished gravely.

~~~

_Sometimes it’s not what the unsub does that reveals the profile. Sometimes it is what they do not do_

_Does the unsub lack the skill to make the headshot, or simply the will to take it?_

~~~

“Agent Hotchner,” a dark-skinned woman stood waiting at the edge of the grass.

Hotch vaguely took in the woman’s surprise at her appearance, well used to people’s disbelief at her towering height and general appearance.

— _she’s probably one of those queer folk, that’s why she looks and dresses like a teenage boy and not the young woman she’s supposed—_

“Detective Calvin,” she shook the woman’s hand. “This is Agent Morgan, Dr. Reid,” she introduced.

“Thanks for coming. Follow me,” Detective Calvin quickly recovered and got down to business but not before the profilers noticed the appreciative look she sent Hotch, a fellow female in the testosterone-filled world of law enforcement.

She directed their attention to the area of the park cordoned off by crime scene tape. “The cones mark the places where the victims were.”

Hotch took in the scene and placement with a critical eye, walking a short distance away, “So we know he fired from somewhere in this area,” she started, thinking aloud, “close enough to hit all three victims, but far enough away not to be seen.”

She looked around, falling back into her old SWAT mindset as she turned half an ear to listening to the conversation happening behind her. 

“Here,” she suddenly stopped in her tracks and called out to the others, interrupting their conversation. She looked down at the painted ground beneath her heels, “This handicapped spot couldn’t be further away from the entrance of the building.”

“Yeah?” Morgan asked; unspoken was his request for verbalization of her thought process.

“It also has a line of sight to all three victims and the flagpole,” she continued, still in the SWAT mindset.

Morgan, knowing of his boss’s laconic nature, prompted her in a more direct manner, “What are you thinking?”

“At this range, the unsub would have had to factor in wind direction and speed as he shot,” she explained, walking around as if she were the unsub. “To do this, he needed a spot with a wide field of fire where he could see the flag to judge how the wind would affect each shot. He came here before the shooting, decided this was his spot, and ensured that it would be empty when he came back.”

Hotch walked back, “My guess is he’s shooting from his car.”

“Well, that would mean he wanted to get away from here quickly, that he didn’t stick around to watch his victims suffer,” Morgan pointed out.

“So he would not be a sadist,” Reid clarified, to Morgan’s noise of agreement.

“What would he be?” Calvin asked, still skeptical and expecting no answer.

Hotch gave her one anyway, “A very smart, very resourceful, very paranoid sociopath.” 

~~~

“Alright, thanks Jayje,” Hotch snapped her phone closed just as Morgan went to answer his own. She and Reid walked to Calvin and the country map they had pinned to the wall. “We think the unsub has intimate knowledge of law enforcement procedures.”

“Detective Calvin, how far out of your jurisdiction was crime scene number two?” Reid asked.

“About a sixth of a mile,” the detective replied, unsure as to where they were going with this. “Why?”

“If he knew how difficult it is for local police departments to interact with each other, he may have intentionally crossed jurisdictional lines,” Reid explained as Calvin’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She looked between the two agents.

“Y’all are saying the shooter’s a cop.”

“We’re saying it’s a possibility,” Hotch corrected. “He scouted and prepped each crime scene, and he chose an elevated position with excellent enfilade and perfect field of fire,” she watched unsmiling as Calvin looked as if she were about to laugh in disbelief.

“That’s textbook military practice,” Calvin protested; Hotch acknowledged her argument as the detective continued laying out her point. “Maybe he was in the army.”

“He was probably a marine, ranger, or other specialized unit” Morgan interjected, walking over after speaking to their analyst. “Garcia says the bullet was a .223 fired from an M-4 variant of the M-16.”

“All the services use an M-4,” Reid said, adding support to the theory being bounced around.

“It’s got a shorter barrel than the M-16. It’s less accurate and it’s a lot harder to fire, especially at these distances,” Morgan told them. “This level of skill indicates specialized training.”

“If he has specialized training, he knows exactly what he’s doing,” Reid pointed out. Morgan nodded as Hotch continued that line of thought.

“He intended to wound them,” she concluded.

“The underkill is deliberate—” Hotch quickly followed Morgan’s statement.

“Everything he does is deliberate,” she restated, “but it’s as if he needs to show us how smart he is.”

Morgan turned to the map, “Since the crime scenes aren’t centered around one single location, Garcia can’t get a geographic profile without additional data.”

Apprehensively, Calvin asked for clarification. “What kind of data?”

“More crime scenes,” Morgan answered quietly.

“And she’s going to get them,” Hotch added gravely, her brow furrowed. “This guy’s got something to prove.”

~~~ 

Hotch scanned over the officers as JJ tried to impress the importance of not releasing the profile to the press upon the officers. She resisted the urge to sigh, anticipating the migraine that almost always appeared during these types of cases.

She stood up and walked to the front, ignoring the looks she was getting from the officers with practiced ease. “We’re looking for a thirty to forty-year-old male veteran driving a car large enough to shoot from, but not so large it was noticed.”

Hotch picked up an officer’s quiet mutter and a muffled laugh that came in response, precedent telling her that she was the topic of discussion. She continued to regard the room as a whole with a cold impassiveness as she continued giving the profile.

“Like the Beltway shooter, it’s probably a sedan, customized to conceal the shooter, his weapon, and the sound of his shot. The unsub suffers from both narcissistic and paranoid personality disorders. He works out obsessively and is never without a weapon.” The officer that Hotch heard took no notice of the glares that were drilling into him from Elle’s and Morgan’s direction, both of whom had also noticed his penchant for small talk and deduced what he was talking about.

“He’s completely self-centered and cannot empathize with others and is incapable of admitting fault, he blames his shortcomings on those around him. He has no friends, and his career history has been marked by frequent job changes. He’s drawn to high-stakes jobs by a need to prove his superiority to a world he perceives has undervalued him, and these shootings are the ultimate expression of that need.” Hotch paused to mentally prepare for the inevitable smart-assing and protests the next part of the profile would receive under the guise of catching her breath.

“We believe he changes jurisdictions intentionally and strikes during the first/second shift change, indicating an intimate knowledge of law enforcement.”

“You’re saying he’s one of us,” one of the officers stated outright. 

“We’re saying he once was or is now a police officer,” she confirmed.

“Is he driving a white van, too?” there were a few chuckles scattered around the room. She looked over at where that comment came from and was unsurprised to see that it was the same officer who was currently the subject of two murderous glares from two annoyed profilers.

“Enough,” the sergeant ordered, “that’ll be all for now.” To the profilers, he said, “We can talk in my office.”

As the officers got up, Hotch threw out a quick thank you, meeting the lecherous stare of Officer Small-Talk with the weight of her own glare. He paled, failing in trying to keep the cocky look on his face as she broke eye contact, dismissing him.

~~~

“Elle, Jerry Middleton was facing a little further south,” Hotch directed as she stood in the empty parking lot on the hill above a grassy field in Franklin Park. “Can you give us that?”

“How’s that?” Elle checked after turning a bit. 

“Perfect. Hold your camera right there,” Hotch ordered, looking around through her own binoculars.

From inside the mobile command center, Gideon gave his input over the radio, “It doesn’t look like Jerry Middleton had a clear view of the sniper’s vehicle when he was shot. The tree branches were in the way.”

“I do have a clear view of the vehicle from here,” Reid reported from his position. “Tim Reilly would have seen it if he’d looked down from the kite.”

“Good, have the unsub pop the trunk,” Gideon ordered. “See if Reid can see it.”

From the vehicle next to Hotch, the officer opened the trunk and set the rifle on the edge. “No, sorry, I can’t,” Reid told them.

“Nothing from position one.”

“Okay, everybody move to position two,” Hotch ordered over the comms; the agents and officers followed her direction as she waited for input from inside the mobile command center. It became apparent that something came up when a minute passed with no response, but she continued to direct the staging anyway.

A few minutes later, she felt her cell phone vibrate against her leg. “What happened?” she asked into the phone, noting Gideon’s number.

“We have a lead.”

Hotch closed her eyes, somehow unsurprised by the news of the media leak. She threw a thanks over the phone and dialed for the bubbly analyst.

“Rainmaker, how wet do you want it?” Garcia quipped to Hotch’s faint amusement. 

“It’s Hotch,” she got down to business, “I have a cell phone number, and I need the name of the account.”

“Yeah,” Garcia said. “If you call the cell I can throw in the real-time location. No charge,” she added.

“Are you ready?”

“I was born ready,” the analyst shot back, working her own brand of magic in her office while her boss waited. 

It didn’t take long for her to start getting results. “That cell is part of a batch purchased by the Des Plaines police department.”

“I need a name, Garcia,” Hotch said.

“That’s going to take a second,” the tapping of keys was heard through the phone. “I have to pull it from their system.”

“Then give me the location.” Hotch turned to the approaching Detective Calvin just as Garcia came through with results.

“Franklin Park, Des Plaines,” the analyst reported quickly. 

“He’s here,” Hotch quietly said to the detective. “The name, Garcia,” she urged.

An answer came in the next second. “McCarty, Scott.”

“Scott McCarty,” Hotch let the name become a question, dread pooling in her gut as she noted the look of realization appearing on Calvin’s face.

“McCarty’s the unsub,” the detective said, voice low.

“Yeah, but where is he?”

“McCarty is _playing_ the unsub,” Calvin clarified. Hotch met the detective’s eyes before they simultaneously turned to the car that McCarty was holed up in. The agent turned and walked quickly to the mobile command center, heeled boots clicking on the pavement. 

“We need to talk to Scott McCarty,” she told Weigart as she entered the vehicle.

“He’s the leak,” Calvin explained from behind. The sergeant tossed his pen down as he processed the information.

“McCarty… why am I not surprised,” he took the radio and spoke into it. “I need SWAT in the lot ASAP,” he ordered, “It’s McCarty. We need to come heavy.”

“We didn’t say he was the shooter,” Hotch interjected as the sergeant’s order was acknowledged. “We could just call him on the radio and tell him to come to us.”

“Best case, he leaked the story. Worst case, I’m not about to let him take down any of my men.” Weigart countered. He placed the radio back onto the table and stood up, unwavering in his orders. “We come heavy, and we take him clean.” He turned back to the feed streaming to the screens on the wall.

Recognizing the futility of trying to argue, Hotch turned to walk outside, dialing for Gideon and informing him of the situation. She leaned against the side of the command vehicle, watching as JJ alerted the other profilers of the situation. 

She kept a hand on the gun at her hip as SWAT surrounded the car and set off a smoke bomb just outside the trunk. Out in the field, Elle quickly ran to cover behind a tree trunk as Morgan went to tackle Reid to the ground. The sergeant, clad in a ballistics vest and gun at the ready, barked out an order. “Toss your rifle and your sidearm out of the vehicle, and show us your hands.”

“I don’t understand,” McCarty said loudly, still inside the car.

“We know what you did, Scotty,” the sergeant pushed.

“Look, I can explain,” the officer tried before he was cut off by Weigart’s ultimatum.

“Don’t make me give the order!” 

“Okay, alright! Alright,” McCarty gave in, panicked. He threw the rifle and his sidearm out onto the grass.

“Now open the trunk lid, _slowly_ ,” Weigart emphasized. The officer obeyed, looking at the sergeant in nervous confusion as he began to walk away from the car towards the guns aimed at him with his arms up. Two SWAT members came up from behind, pushing him onto the ground and cuffing him. The sergeant watched in visible disappointment as McCarty was being manhandled by SWAT away from the scene. 

_Thwip._

“Shots fired!” someone yelled out as McCarty dropped like a stone, a dark red spot in the center of his forehead.

“Get down!” Gideon shouted, pushing JJ down and hovering over her protectively as the others, who had been cautiously moving back out into the open, returned to cover. Hotch and Calvin pressed themselves against the wall of the command vehicle, guns in their hands as SWAT swept the area.

~~~

_Sometimes it’s what they don’t do._

_Wants to send a message—_

_Nobody takes credit for my work._

_He has contact with his victims._

_And there’s only one way._

_The crime scenes are centered around two locations—_

_The hospitals._

~~~

It didn’t take her much time to look over Landman’s car, a red two-seat Maserati—the complete opposite of what the profile suggests. She said as much when she found Elle, Reid, and JJ outside an O.R. watching Gideon talk to the arrogant surgeon. 

“Reid, let’s take a walk down to the E.R.,” Hotch suggested when the surgeon gave his alibi.

“My guess is that Dr. Pate is going to corroborate Landman’s alibi,” she stated as they walked the short distance between the surgery department and emergency room.

“You don’t think Landman is the shooter?” Reid asked curiously.

She decided to use the classic case of hero homicide to explain. “Richard Angelo wanted to be a hero because, in his everyday life, he was a nobody. Landman is a surgeon. He has power and recognition.”

“Yeah, but you know, surgeons are a different breed,” Reid shot back. “They’re the stars in their field, and Landman is definitely not one of them.”

“I’d like to speak with Dr. Pate,” Hotch approached one of the doctors with her FBI badge out.

Ignoring the look she received from the doctors with practiced ease, Hotch turned back to Reid, continuing from where the discussion left off after the doctor nodded and left. “The motivations for hero homicide are excitement, power, and respect, and even though Landman isn’t a star, he still gets respect,” she argued quietly. “Racing against the clock to save someone’s life is exciting.”

“Maybe it’s not exciting enough,” Reid suggested. “That’s—that’s why he shoots three people at a time.” 

“But he can only operate on one at a time,” she retorted. “It wouldn’t be any more exciting,” Hotch trailed off as her attention was caught by an announcement over the E.R. loudspeaker. She turned to look around the bustle of the E.R., Reid following suit when she didn’t continue her argument.

There was a man holding a blood-soaked cloth to his hand, a child in a wheelchair, and chatter filled the air as nurses and doctors rushed around to the numerous patients. 

“At least,” Hotch lowered his voice even more as pieces started coming together, “not for Landman, and not in the O.R.”

Continuing that train of thought, Reid turned to his boss. “The policemen and E.R. personnel are on the exact same 24-hour shift schedule,” he said quietly.

“The unsub wasn’t shooting at shift change because there were fewer cops on the street,” she said as Reid shook his head, “he works the second shift in the emergency room.”

“Contact with the victims,” Reid said quickly. Hotch pulled out her phone and began to dial, but the sound of the buttons being pressed caught the attention of one of the nearby doctors. 

“Ma’am, you can’t use the cell phone in the hospital,” the doctor told them. Hotch tried not to let the frustration show in her expression as she reluctantly flipped the phone shut. _Or maybe…_

She walked around the counter and approached the doctor. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said, pulling out her badge. “We’re FBI agents, and we believe that one of your staff members might be the killer.” The doctor looked mildly annoyed, but listened as she continued, “Now, the man we’re looking for works the second shift, and he would have transferred from Arlington in the past two weeks.”

The doctor shook her head, “We haven’t hired any new personnel in the past two months.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” the annoyance became clearer as the doctor made to walk away. “Look, I’ve got patients who need me—”

“He’s in his thirties,” Hotch tried, moving to get in front of her again. “He’s vain, rude, arrogant. He works out, he shows up to work late, blames others for his mistakes, doesn’t take responsibility for his behavior. All of his coworkers detest him.”

“Oh my god,” the doctor breathed out, a sick look appearing on her face. “It’s Philip Dowd. He’s—he picks up shifts at Arlington,” she said frantically. 

“Is he here today?” Hotch tried to keep the panicking doctor calm. “Okay, your patients need you calm,” she said firmly, but not unkindly. “Now, tell me, is Dowd working today?”

The doctor nodded. 

“Do you see him?” 

She looked around, trying to keep calm, and shook her head no. Hotch gestured for Reid, who had been standing quietly next to her. “Go tell Gideon.” The agent in question nodded and quickly started for the rest of the team.

“Reid,” Hotch called out. “Easy,” she cautioned the agent and turned back to the emergency room at large. 

Through the bustle of the room, her ears registered a thud and stiffened out of instinct. When the familiar, drawn-out sound of scraping metal followed seconds later, her hand flew to her sidearm, pulling it out and aiming it at the source of the sound in one swift motion.

Yelps and screams of terror erupted around her when there was a sudden burst of gunfire accompanied by the lights going out and the alarms that started blaring. Hotch didn’t move, remaining steady in aiming at the gunman: the man they had asked to get Dr. Pate, the aforementioned Philip Dowd. 

“Nobody moves, and nobody dies,” the now-identified unsub threatened from behind the security guard he used as a shield. He looked at Hotch.

“Better be a headshot, I’ve got this on full auto; anything less, I got down squeezing the trigger,” he warned her with malice. Slowly, Hotch lowered her gun and placed it on the counter, mind quickly going through the possible outcomes as the gunman approached cautiously, taking the gun out of her reach. 

“Get up!” he barked into the hallway. “Double time, let’s go!” Hotch kept her expression carefully blank and mentally reevaluated the situation as she watched Reid quickly make his way over to her with his hands in the air. The two were effectively on their own, the situation too volatile for the others to intervene. 

“You,” Dowd turned to Hotch, “take your partner’s gun, put it on the counter.” 

“He’s not armed,” she said, jerking her head towards Reid. “See for yourself.”

Dowd was silent, thinking over his options. “Hands on your heads,” he said shortly. The agents did so, and he quickly swiped a hand over Reid. He took out Reid’s badge, taking in the FBI shield.

“Get up, Keith,” the security guard—Keith, apparently—did as he was asked. “Put those on them,” Dowd ordered, referring to the zip-ties. Hotch didn’t take her eyes off the gunman as the guard tied her hand up and was ordered to put them on himself as well.

“Now step back,” Dowd ordered. When the guard was just behind him, he slammed the butt of his rifle into his head, knocking him out. To the agents left standing, he said, “Get down on the ground, have a seat.”

“Now what kind of an FBI agent doesn’t carry a gun?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m a profiler,” Reid said shakily, reminding the Hotch of his inexperience in these situations. 

“Profiler,” Dowd repeated mockingly. “They sent you to figure me out?”

“We did, that’s how we found you.”

 _Reid_ , she thought, _I hope you’ll forgive me._ “Shut up, Reid,” Hotch said out loud, not giving a hint as to what she was thinking and deliberately not looking at Reid so she wouldn’t have to see the kicked-puppy look that was bound to be on his face. 

“No, don’t shut up,” Dowd interjected. “Tell me what you think you know about me.” Reid looked around with uncertainty.

“Go on, genius,” she placed a hint of derision on the nickname. “Tell him. Tell him,” she repeated when he looked at her in question. “But remember, get it wrong, and he’s going to kill you,” she said callously. Reid looked over at Dowd, who made a face of agreement, before looking down, silently.

“Okay. You’re the boss,” he said to Hotch, who easily ignored the lecherous note to his tone. “You tell me. Who am I? What’s my plan?” he asked, mock-curious. 

“I know you shot eleven people in broad daylight and left us nothing,” she didn’t give him any ammunition as she obliged in a flat tone, tilting her head. “You executed a cop in front of the FBI and got away clean, and I know your plan is to go down in a hail of bullets.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know you’re the smartest guy in every room you’ve ever been in and no one’s ever known it,” she said, playing to his narcissism. “People feel threatened by you and try to sabotage you every chance they get. You’re not a bad person,” she insisted. “You help save all of your victims afterward. The first guy wasn’t your fault,” she brought up the sole fatality as he shifted his rifle. “If the EMTs had been there in time he would have lived.”

“It took those guys thirteen minutes,” Dowd said, goaded by Hotch’s pandering. “Thirteen,” he repeated, seething. 

“You want to barricade the door,” she said out of the blue. 

“What?”

“Let me and the kid do it,” she continued. “Let ‘em see that you’ve got two FBI agents in here doing your bidding.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “And let you give them a signal.”

“What signal?” Hotch asked rhetorically, choosing her next words carefully. “They knew you were in here. They knew you were armed. What can I tell them?”

Dowd lifted his rifle back up to his shoulder to another round of gasps from the other hostages, aiming at them threateningly. “What’s this, some sort of profiler trick?” he asked derisively, “New negotiation tactic?”

“No, the barricade’s a good idea though,” he continued after considering for a moment. He lowered the rifle. “Now, why would you want to help me?”

“I don’t,” Hotch promptly denied. She watched Dowd think over the interaction, seeing the moment he caught the hook. 

“You said they _knew_ I was in here,” he said aloud. She played up her hesitation.

“I said they _know_ you’re in here,” she emphasized.

“No,” he condescended. “That’s not what you said.”

“Why does it matter?” Reid broke his silence, still looking at the ground. 

“It matters because your partner wants to— _thinks_ ” he corrected, after taking another look over Hotch, “she can help me even though she doesn’t know it.” He let out a smug smile. “Go ahead, boss lady,” he taunted. “Tell him why. If you lie, or leave anything out, _pop_ ,” Dowd mimed firing a shot, popping the ‘p’.

She maintained eye contact with the narcissist and avoided looking at Reid, who had turned to look at her in confusion. “They knew he was in here, they knew he was armed and dangerous, and they knew he was going to fight ‘til the last round,” she sucked in a breath as if she was trying to hold back her anger. “And they sent me in here with an unarmed _kid_ who can’t shoot his way out of a wet paper bag,” she finished derisively. 

“They set you up,” Dowd crowed, barely hiding his glee.

“Exactly, and they’re probably laughing about it right now.”

“And that’s why you want to help me,” he said, triumphant with his discovery. 

“I wouldn’t say I want to help you,” Hotch edited. “But when they come in here to get revenge for the cop you killed, you’re going to go down fighting and in the crossfire, a lot of us are going to die.” She injected the disgust she felt towards Dowd into her voice, playing up her act. 

“They sent me in here. I figure, why make it easy for them?”

Dowd looked at Hotch in a new—though still lecherous, she noted with an internal sigh—light.

“Go,” he barked at the hostages, jerking his head to the doorway. 

“You know why they took away boy genius’s gun?” Hotch asked rhetorically as the scared hostages did as they were told. 

“Why?” Dowd asked.

 _Forgive me, Reid._ “He failed his qualification,” she informed him, putting on a mask of annoyed anger. “Twice a year I’ve got to listen to him whine about requalifying, so _I_ tutor him, and he _fails again_.”

“You think you’ve got it rough?” Dowd retorted. “These people,” he swept a loathing look around the room, “have done nothing but undermine me since I got here.”

“Put him next to the barricade,” Hotch suggested calmly. “That way, when they blast their way in here, both of our problems are solved. That sort of thing could ruin a cop’s career,” she added lightly, pushing satisfaction into her tone.

“I didn’t even know a woman could be as sick as you are,” Dowd commented, almost impressed.

She kept her face impassive, showing none of her revulsion as she threw back a retort. “How do you think I found you?” Dowd let out a twisted smile at her response.

Taking her chance, she prodded at him just a bit more. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“You can ask,” he was cautious but still gleeful at his discovery. 

“I figure the chances of my getting out of here alive are pretty slim… ” She trailed off.

“So?” He prompted impatiently.

“I want to kick the snot out of this kid.” Reid looked at her, hurt and fear written all over his face. “He’s made my life miserable for _three lousy years_.” 

Dowd let out a surprised huff and looked at her appraisingly. “Knock yourself out.”

Hotch lunged over, knocking Reid over onto his side and aiming a kick towards his stomach. 

“How smart are you now, smart guy?” _thank god I’m not wearing my other heels today._

“It’s front sight,” she kicked, “trigger press,” she kicked again, “follow through,” she growled out through clenched teeth. 

“It’s not that hard,” Reid let out cries of pain, “a _dalmatian_ could do it!” She planted her left foot next to his torso, ready to kick again when she felt two hands grab her ankle in a vice-like grip. 

“Let go,” she tried to pull away. “Let go!” She wrenched away from his grasp, breathing deeply as she turned to look at the man watching, entertained. 

“Feel better?” he asked as Reid coughed in the corner. 

“I think he got the message,” she answered to his amused snort. He looked over at the cowering agent on the ground before shifting his gaze. His delighted expression suddenly dropped. 

“What’s that?” he jerked his head towards her ankle. Hotch looked down where her ankle holster, clearly empty, was out in full view from under her pants leg. She looked up as Dowd realized he’d been duped and lifted his rifle back up to his shoulder, prepared to fire.

_Bang_

Cries erupted from the hostages at the gunshot as Dowd’s head jerked back from the scope, a red hole in the center of his forehead. Hotch let go of some of her tension when he collapsed backward, dead from Reid’s headshot. 

“Federal agent!” she yelled out, hearing orders being barked outside and quickly making her way to the door. “Federal agent, hold your fire.” She managed to get the door open and was met with a SWAT unit that was about to go in.

“It’s all clear.”

~~~

Hotch approached Reid, who leaned against the back of an ambulance with his arms crossed. He looked up as she let out a tired sigh. “You alright?” she asked. 

Reid nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly, sending a stab of guilt through her. Out of habit, she crossed her arms. 

“Nice shot,” she complimented, trying to bring in some levity.

Reid let out a small smile. “I was aiming for his leg,” he quipped. 

She raised an eyebrow, amusement slowly digging its way out from under the exhaustion and guilt. “I wouldn’t have kept kicking, but I was afraid you didn’t get my plan.” _I’m not going to apologize for the plan, but I will apologize a thousand times over for getting you hurt in the process._

“I got your plan the minute you moved the hostages out of my line of fire.”

She tilted her head, allowing guilt and worry to seep into her expression. “Well, I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.”

Reid let out a small snort. “Hotch, I was a twelve-year-old child prodigy in a Las Vegas public high school,” he smiled ruefully and knowingly, as if he knew about the short burst of anger she felt at the mention of his history of being bullied. “I’ve had much worse. I’m just glad you weren’t wearing your killer heels today.” They both let out a chuckle—Hotch reluctantly—at that. 

The moment of companionable silence ended when the genius offered the gun he had taken from Hotch back to her. She gently pushed his hand back. “Keep it,” she grasped around his hand and the gun in it, using the warmth of his hand to reassure herself of his well being. “As far as I’m concerned, you passed your qualification.”

She felt some strange mixture of pride and protectiveness when she saw the smile that stretched across his face in spite of the day’s events. Taking a split second to look around and noting that everyone sans the team, who were watching the duo from a distance, was distracted with something or other, she quickly wrapped an arm around the youngest agent and gave him a brief squeeze before she turned and walked away.

She didn’t see how Reid’s smile became bigger behind her or the fascinated smiles the team wore at the rare display of affection from the unit chief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on my tumblr: @sodone-withlife
> 
> How was it? I hope it wasn't too bad and hopefully realistic? Please, don't be afraid to leave your thoughts and perspectives.
> 
> Anyway, I'll confess that I have quite a few parts already written for this series, but I'm not sure when I'll post them (if I will post them at all). 
> 
> If it becomes clear that this is not a completely insane idea, I'll probably post them, but no guarantees there will be a consistent schedule (which entirely depends on my motivation level, which is likely to fluctuate quite a bit as the school semester progresses).
> 
> Again, please don't be afraid to comment. Your comments keep me going and I'd love to hear your thoughts about this crazy-ass concept.


	2. Natural Born Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people seemed interested, so here's chapter 2. hope y'all enjoy it!

“Hey, Hotch,” Morgan called as he walked up the stairs to the unit chief’s office. He held up some papers as approached her desk. “I think we found our third victim.”

Hotch set down her coffee and took the offered papers, rifling through them. “The Dimarco’s nephew, who is also a low-level mob guy,” she read, eyebrows raised, “and he was found in pieces. Any indication of sexual assault?” she asked. 

Morgan shook his head no as she handed back the folder. “Go ahead and tell the others, I need a bit to finish up these reports.”

“Sure,” Morgan said before turning to head to the conference room as Hotch returned to the last few sheets of paperwork on her desk. A few minutes later, JJ peaked her head into the office.

“Hey, there are some agents out here who think you’re poaching on their turf,” she said.

Hotch nodded, quickly signing off on the papers, and stood up. “Thanks, JJ, I’ll take care of it. Oh,” she added, as JJ moved to leave. The liaison stopped in her tracks, looking back inquisitively. “Notify Gideon about this also? Thank you.”

The unit chief walked out to a small gathering of men on the walkway. “SSA Hotchner,” she introduced herself to one of the men, offering her hand out to him. Over his shoulder, she could see Gideon coming over to see what was going on and the rest of the team moving closer to the doorway to listen in.

“Josh Cramer,” he returned, shaking her hand after a brief pause, during which he did the customary surprised sweep over her figure. “Special agent in charge of organized crime, Baltimore.”

“SSA Gideon—” she introduced as the older agent approached, only for Cramer to talk over her. 

“Jason Gideon,” he said, shaking his hand with the air of an excited fan. “The BAU’s pretty famous,” the agent explained unabashedly. 

Gideon looked around at other men on the walkway. “Brought the whole team, huh?” he remarked.

“Yeah,” Cramer affirmed with a casual smile. “We were in town.”

“We were just going over your case. Want to join us?” Hotch, already knowing what this meeting is about, remained silent and let Gideon make nice with the agent. 

“I’d love to, but I can’t stay,” the agent declined. “I just wanted to come down and say thank you for going to Baltimore yesterday and looking into this for us, but now that it’s pretty obviously an organized crime case, we’re going to go ahead and take over for you.” She and Gideon remained silent as he looked between them. “I’m sure you guys have enough to do with your psychos.”

“You don’t think that the guy who killed the Dimarcos is a psycho?” Hotch prodded critically. 

“What he is now is my problem,” Cramer deflected. “But again, thanks for coming out.”

“Anything we can do to help,” Gideon replied disarmingly. 

“Appreciate that,” the males shook hands as Hotch acknowledged the Baltimore agent with a nod. She walked back into her office, hating the office politics that came with the job with a passion. It was easy to visualize Agent Cramer storming back into the office in a fit of anger when he inevitably finds out that the team was still working the case.

~~~

“Michael Russo?” Hotch asked, pulling out her credentials as she walked through the scrapyard with Morgan following just behind. A rather seedy-looking man was approaching them with a suspicious air; a burly man wearing sunglasses—a bodyguard, most likely—stood behind him. “Agents Hotchner and Morgan, FBI,” she introduced, ignoring the surprised-turned-appraising look he aimed at her with practiced ease. 

“What do you want?” Russo asked, finally looking away.

Hotch slipped her hands into her pockets. “Freddy Condore,” she said simply.

“He didn’t show up for work today,” the mob boss instantly replied, looking up and glancing at his bodyguard, who nodded. “He didn’t call, nothin’.”

“Probably because he and his aunt and uncle were murdered last night.

Russo made an aborted movement with his head. “Really?” he asked, trying to seem casually indifferent. “Too bad.”

“Yeah?” Morgan interjected sarcastically. “I can tell you’re all busted up about it.”

That got a rise out of the mob boss. “Look,” he said belligerently, “I don’t speak smart-ass, so you got something to say to me…” he let it hang.

Hotch shut it down. “It was a professional hit. Either you’re in charge of your business or you’re not.”

“What kind of business do you think I’m in, huh?” he asked defensively. “Look around. I’m in scrap metal. It’s about recycling, it’s where all the money is: saving the earth, baby.” 

Hotch, feeling Morgan stiff up next to her in reaction to what Russo addressed her by, tapped his wrist in an unspoken request to calm down. “You’ve got a big problem,” she warned the mob boss. “You know, the mob isn’t what it used to be.”

Morgan approached Russo, looking down at him. “Ain’t easy always fighting for respect, it is? You always gotta fight for what’s yours. One of your boys steps out of line,” he paused, making a chiding sound. “You hit him hard, you make it count, right? Is that what happened to Freddy?” 

The mob boss let out an incredulous laugh. “Look, you’ve got a case to make. Run along, get your papers, and come back with the bracelets,” he challenged. “Otherwise, I got a business to run,” Russo turned and walked away, leaving the agents—both annoyed, one more so than the other—standing behind in silence. 

The quiet was interrupted by Morgan’s phone ringing as they walked back to the SUV. Hotch waited, leaning against the driver’s side as Morgan answered the call, talking to the other person for a few minutes before hanging up. 

They met each other’s gaze over the hood and made a synchronous movement to enter the car. “There’s an address we need to hit,” Morgan said. 

~~~

Hotch fell into an easy rhythm with Morgan as she slammed through the door of an apartment, pushing it all the way open with her gun out in front of her. She looked over the room as Morgan stormed in beside her, moving deeper into the apartment. 

“It’s clear,” she said as she walked to the center of the room. “Clear,” she repeated into the mic at her wrist, receiving acknowledgment from the backup outside.

“It’s clear here,” Morgan called from the other room.

“Morgan, this is weird,” Hotch commented, taking note of the book on the slept-in bed and the otherwise bare room. “There’s nothing here,” she walked into the hallway, keen eyes roving over all the surfaces. “It’s like nobody lives here.”

She watched as Morgan went to open the cabinets—some of which they discovered were locked, others empty. “Guess he wasn’t expecting company,” she remarked, looking around.

“Something’s wrong,” Morgan agreed with her assessment. “Look at this place. It’s an artificial dwelling,” he glanced at the ceiling as if making sure there wasn’t anything strange up there, “to match an artificial past.”

Hotch hummed in agreement as she went back into the other room to do a deeper search. The duo went silent for a few moments as they dug through the sparsely furnished apartment. 

“Hey Hotch,” Morgan suddenly called out, urgency in his tone. “We’ve got a hot weapon.” 

She quickly made her way back to the kitchen where Morgan was pulling a cloth-covered bundle out of the wall. “Oh no,” she heard him mutter as he looked at what was hidden. 

Morgan turned around, holding a gun in his hand. “It’s a Glock 19,” he said as she looked into the hidden cavity that he’d punched into. “And this round,” he held them up in his other hand, “is standard law enforcement issue.” She met his grave gaze, the pieces coming together.

“So you’re saying that Baker’s an undercover cop.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I’m saying I did eighteen months deep cover, and this place has got all the makings of a crash pad,” Morgan said, sweeping a look over the room. 

Hotch resisted the urge to rub at her temples, already feeling the headache that an undercover cop—maybe even fed—getting caught up in a serial murder case would cause.

~~~

True to her expectations, Cramer stormed into her office the next day and slammed the door closed behind him with an angry air. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, causing her to look up from a new stack of paperwork.

“Sorry?” she asked, unsurprised by his presence but taken aback by the blatant hostility.

“I told you, this is my case!”

_ Of course _ , she thought exasperatedly, standing up. “All right, first of all, don’t shout at me. And secondly, you don’t decide what cases the BAU works on.” She stared him down, not looking away even as she noticed Gideon outside approaching her office in her periphery.

“You ran my agent’s gun through IBIS?” Cramer asked incredulously. 

“Because I wanted to know who he worked for, and now that I do, I’d like to talk to him,” she answered neutrally. 

The Baltimore agent paused, taking a step back. “You don’t have him,” he realized, raising his eyebrows and silently asking for confirmation.

“No,” Hotch said emphatically. “You don’t know where he is?” 

Cramer took another step back, sinking into the chair behind him. “He’s missing.”

“How long?” Gideon spoke up, standing at the doorway.

“About twelve hours,” Cramer told them, agitated.

“Before or after the murders?”

Cramer dubiously eyed the two profilers, who were still standing as they waited for his answer. “You think Jimmy’s a suspect?”

“Well, there’s a sketch of someone who looks an awful lot like him leaving the scene.”

“That’s because he was there,  _ after _ ,” Cramer emphasized. “Look,” he started to explain, looking at Hotch, “he ran into a couple of Baltimore detectives and they made him while he was with Condore. Now Jimmy tried to play it off, but he didn’t think that Condore had bought it, so he wanted to go back and talk to him.” 

Hotch, hearing the passion in his explanation, made a mental note to keep an eye on the agent in order to keep him working with them and not inadvertently against them. “When he saw what was left of the Dimarcos,” the agent continued, “he called us for a pickup. We showed up, he didn’t.”

She met Gideon’s gaze, asking Cramer, “You think he ran?” 

The agent shook his head. “No, Jimmy’s too experienced to run without contact,” he said with certainty. “If he’s not calling in, then someone is keeping him from doing it.”

“Who’s Jimmy Baker’s target?” Gideon asked. 

“Michael Russo. We’ve been after the guy for three years; Jimmy’s been under for almost two.”

“We talked to Russo yesterday,” she said. “He seemed genuinely surprised by the murders.”

“And you bought that?” Cramer condescended. “Let me tell you a little something about Michael Russo. The guy is a liar and a good one. If he didn’t do it, he knows who did.” The profilers were silent as they took in the new information, gauging their next steps.

“Oh hell, you know what?” Cramer stood up and got into Hotch’s face, clearly out of patience. “I’m wasting my time with you, you obviously don’t get it.” 

Gideon blocked the door, stopping the irate agent from leaving. “Agent Cramer, we are not the enemy,” he reminded calmly. “Please sit down,” he requested, closing the door behind him. Hotch sat back down as Gideon sat in the other chair in front of her desk, turning so that he was face to face with Cramer. 

“We’re dealing with a very dangerous killer here and we need your help,” Gideon gestured towards the Baltimore agent, who was leaning back in his chair. “You know these people better than we do.”

“This guy,” Cramer began, “if he is what you say he is and he has Jimmy, did he kill him already?” There was a desperate note to his voice.

“We don’t know,” Gideon said bluntly. The profilers waited as Cramer fell silent and thought over his options. They could see the moment he made his decision.

“I’ll help you in any way that I can,” he said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a photo of a couple with two children and handing it to Gideon. “You help me get this man back to his family.”

~~~

It wasn’t the first time Hotch had conducted business in a bar setting—she had done it often enough when she was a prosecutor—and it certainly wasn’t the first time she was dealing with organized crime. But with an unsub with the perfect career and a body count potentially numbering above 100, she felt a need to keep her hand near her hip and ready as she felt the eyes on her while she and Morgan walked into the dark establishment towards Russo. She squashed that urge, however, and tossed a folder onto the table between them and the mobster. 

“How can I help you, agents?” he asked, irritably placing his drink down.

“We’re worried about you,” Hotch answered lightly, causing him to sigh and turn to fully face the two agents.

He regarded them with a patronizing stare. “What’s causing you to lose sleep?”

“We hear you didn’t order that hit on Freddy,” Morgan remarked casually.

“I told you I had nothing to do with that,” Russo took a sip of his drink.

“Why don’t you take a look in that folder?” 

The profilers watched him open the file and look inside. “Hey…” he breathed out, looking at the pictures that were inside. 

Morgan continued to talk to him. “It looks like you must have a problem within your organization.”

“Is that right?” Russo looked up suspiciously before turning back and flipping through the pages. 

“So, your hitter doesn’t just kill for a paycheck. He kills for pleasure,” Hotch said, completely matter-of-fact. “It’s what makes him good at what he does. He’s paranoid, he’s a psychopath, and he’s free-lancing.” She met the mob boss’s gaze unflinchingly. “He’s killing civilians now, and he’s drawing a lot of attention, but you can’t control him.”

Russo looked back down at a photo of multiple burn marks. “That’s what he did to Freddy’s uncle,” she told him. 

“Russo, if he’s not a problem for you now, he will be,” Morgan added. The mobster flicked an eye around the bar consideringly, then pasted a fake smile onto his face and closed the folder. 

He slapped it back into Hotch’s outstretched hand and stood up, buttoning up his suit jacket, giving her another eye over. Her hand twitched near her hip threateningly as she stared the mobster down, Russo’s mask of bravado slipping at the sight of her expression.

The mobster looked away from her and towards Morgan, giving his arm a casual slap. “What if you let me worry about that?” 

Hotch turned and briskly walked towards the door, where she waited as she let her fellow profiler remind Russo of the assumption the unsub would make if he found out that the mobster had been cozying up with the FBI. She pulled out her phone and dialed Gideon’s number.

“Hey, Morgan is pulling the ‘cozying up with the feds’ card with Russo. He is sleazy and puts up a good act, but he is smart. I expect that he’ll cave soon,” she informed him.

“All right,” Gideon replied. “I’m sending a surveillance team over to his office. I’ll meet you and Morgan there.”

~~~

“Remember,” Hotch heard Gideon say through her earpiece. “We need this man alive”

A member of the SWAT team acknowledged the reminder. “Copy that.”

She moved carefully through the scrapyard and scanned the surrounding area, walking quietly in her boots which she was glad to have remembered to change into before she left the office.

“It’s all clear,” Morgan informed them. She continued making her way around the piles of scrap metal, waiting for Cramer’s check-in.

It came a few minutes later. “Nothing,” the agent reported quietly. Hotch continued moving in the dark, straining her eyes and keeping track of the sounds near her. 

Just as she was about to move into the light, a booted foot kicked at the back of her knees, causing her to stumble and fall down, her gun flying out of her hands. She let out a grunt as the air was slammed out of her and she stayed down, winded, until a gloved hand grabbed at the neck of her jacket and pulled her back up. 

She was slammed against an abandoned van, too disoriented to do defend herself from the blows that were coming to her face.

“Hotch?” Gideon’s worried voice came through the earpiece as she let out a cry when the unsub shoved her back onto the ground. Hotch tried to go for her backup only to feel a garotte being roughly wound around her neck. 

Managing to get her hands between the wire and her neck, she pulled against the cord, giving herself just a bit of breathing room and fought to get free. She could vaguely hear footsteps getting louder and closer to them as she started feeling lightheaded, all the while trying to keep memories of whiskey-tainted breath and a bruising grip around her neck at bay. 

Morgan’s shout from in front of her allowed her to push the memories away, clearing her mind as she decided to take a risk and started feeling around with her left foot.

The unsub let out a startled yell as Hotch found his foot and stomped on it with her heel. His grip loosened, giving her the opportunity to wrench the cord from his grip and free herself as the others took the opportunity to tase him from behind. 

She stumbled forward and nearly fell onto her face, but she was pulled back in time by Gideon as Morgan and a few SWAT members moved in and held down the unsub to cuff him. 

“You okay?” the older profiler kneeled next to her on the ground, moving to undo the top button of her dress shirt. Hotch nodded, rubbing her throat and coughing as her eyes watered and lungs worked in overdrive to regain the lost oxygen. “Loosen your collar for once in your life, huh?”

“It’s all right,” she managed to get out, allowing the older profiler to fuss over her for a bit longer. They stayed there for a few moments before leaned a bit on Gideon to stand up. The two made their way over to the SUVs and waited for the agents and SWAT to clear the area.

Hotch stood silently, trying to recover from her unexpected near-spiral while she was being choked. She avoided Gideon’s knowing gaze, cursing not for the first time his uncanny ability to read her. He was the only person on the team who knew what a number her father did on her, and he had definitely picked up on her unease. 

The unsub, though smiling, stared at her with an unreadable look in his eyes as he was forced into the vehicle behind the two profilers. Morgan and Cramer approached them from the right, the former sending a concerned glance at Hotch and the superficial wounds she had gotten from the fight. She nodded, silently telling him she was fine.

“There’s a van around the corner,” Cramer said. “Looks like blood all over.”

“It’s being processed right now. Whatever they find, they’re going to send over to Quantico,” Morgan informed them. 

There was a brief silence. “They got Jimmy’s jacket,” the Baltimore agent said quietly, to which one had a reply.

“Take off,” Gideon ordered the driver of the car transporting the unsub. He and the other agents turned towards the other cars, heading to Quantico following just behind the transport vehicle.

~~~

Hotch stood next to Cramer and watched agents chain Vincent Perotta to the chair in the middle of the interrogation room on the other side of the window. She ignored the dull pain that came with every breath and watched the man carefully to establish a baseline. 

“We don’t have time for this little show,” Cramer said impatiently. “Interrogation techniques say make the guy comfortable, make him your friend. Give him a way out. That’s how you get a confession.”

“That may work with a common criminal. It’s not going to work here,” Hotch cautioned him.

“Why is that?”

She explained, “Because antisocial personality disorder means never trust anyone with anything at any time.”

Morgan looked up from where he was double-checking the locks and met her gaze through the window before nodding and leaving the room behind the other agents. 

“So what are you supposed to do?” Cramer asked.

She took note of Perotta’s nonchalant demeanor, the upturn of his lips. Gideon walked up to her right, joining them in watching the man who had tortured and killed dozens of people and had nearly killed a federal agent.

“The others are going through the contents of his truck,” the other profiler informed Hotch, who nodded and turned to Cramer, answering his question.

“Make him  _ un _ comfortable.”

Gideon turned a critical eye to the unit chief. “Go home,” he told her.

“I’m fine,” she rebuffed. She changed the subject, gesturing at Perotta through the window. “He’s got a little slack.”

“Morgan says he’s secure, he’s secure,” Gideon returned as he took off anything that could be weaponized. He turned to the door, going into the room to begin questioning when Hotch called him back. 

She gestured toward his front pocket and plucked out the pen that was inside. “Let’s not give him a weapon. He’s kinda strong,” she said quietly, the confrontation at the scrapyard playing over and over again in her head as she tried to figure out what she was missing. 

“Hey Hotch,” Gideon called at the door, turning to look back. “I’ll be okay,” he said, meeting Hotch’s outwardly impassive gaze. She nodded and returned her focus to the man in the room, watching as Gideon entered and sat on the side table. 

“I’m Supervisory Special Agent Jason Gideon,” his voice came through the speakers, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“You afraid of me, Jason?” Perotta spoke for the first time, his voice a carefully modulated baritone. 

Gideon tilted his head, not answering. “You were advised of your rights?”

Perotta rolled his lips and gave a non-answer. “Take these off and we’ll really talk,” he said, referring to his shackles. 

“Were you advised of your rights?”

“I know my rights,” he gave in, annoyance briefly flashing across his face. 

“You wanna talk?”

He casually turned his head, looking away from the profiler’s direction and shrugged as much as he could with the chains. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Gideon nodded. “Good.”

Hotch didn’t look away from the interrogation as Morgan entered and walked to the window with Cramer. “How’s it going?” he asked. 

“Don’t turn your back on him, Gideon,” she couldn’t help but mutter as the aforementioned profiler walked between Perotta and the window.

Morgan shook his head. “Hotch, you know how he is. He’s just trying to show him that he’s not intimidated.”

“Yeah, it’s not about fear it’s about being dismissive,” she disagreed. “Perotta could assume he’s disrespecting him.”

Cramer spoke up from Morgan’s other side. “Why don’t we turn these cameras off?” he suggested, outwardly casual but vindictive anticipation clear in his tone. “I’ll get him to tell us where Jimmy is.”

“That wouldn’t work,” she said as Morgan let out a huff of agreement. 

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, he was probably abused by one or both of his parents. He’s learned to take the pain.” She didn’t quite snap at him, but the impatience was clearly there. 

“And that’s why he has no compassion for anyone else’s,” Morgan continued, looking at Cramer. “You gotta trust us.”

Cramer relented, reigning back his impatience as Perotta spoke again. “You’re not organized crime,” the hitman said, looking at Gideon who met his impassive gaze evenly.

“No,” the profiler agreed. “We’re behavioral analysis.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked tonelessly.

“Well,” Gideon said, moving to take a seat in front of him, “we study how you think, why you do what you do.”

“No kidding.”

“We have a word for you.”

“You have a word for me?” Perotta repeated, a curious inflection turning it into a question.

Gideon nodded. “Oh yeah. Actually, we have a few.” He let out a brief chuckle as Perotta let out an appraising smile. “Psychopath, paranoid personality disorder,” he listed. The hitman’s expression froze and lost some of the previously displayed apparently delighted curiosity. 

“That’s quite a mouthful, Jason,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” Gideon agreed.

Perotta leaned forward. “Michael Russo set me up, didn’t he?” he was expectant, like he wanted confirmation of what he wanted to know. 

He didn’t receive an answer as Gideon only leaned forward and pulled out a picture, asking a question instead. “Do you recognize this man?”

“No,” the hitman easily answered. 

“How about them?” Gideon asked, indicating the board to his left. “Anyone look familiar?”

Perotta looked at the three pictures of the triple-murder victims on the board. “Wait a minute, the third guy over,” he said aloud. He turned back to Gideon. “I think he does those late-night commercials for the dead worms. You know,” he added, “softies.”

Gideon let out a hum, to which Perotta asked amicably, “That’s funny to you?”

“It’s just interesting that you’d choose that expression.” Hotch listened from the other side of the glass as the profiler continued the way she’d expected he would. “You have problems performing?” Gideon asked casually.

“Not me,” was the confident reply.

“Where’s he going with this? There’s no evidence that this guy can’t perform,” Morgan asked, having not caught on to Gideon’s tactics yet.

“I know Gideon knows that, he just,” she shook her head in worried exasperation at his brazen words, “pushing his buttons.” 

“Does murder excite you?” Gideon continued asking. “Is it the only thing that can give you a gratifying sexual release?” That got a rise out of Perotta, who took a controlled breath. Gideon turned to the board again and stood up, walking to stand next to it. 

“Vincent,” the man looked over as Gideon flipped the board over to display the other side, which was completely filled with numerous photos of unnamed people. “I believe you’re an extremely impotent man,” Gideon said with finality, looking directly into the hitman’s eyes. 

Perotta jerked his arms up, the chains making a sound of metal against metal as they kept him from moving around freely. “Take these off and we’ll see,” he challenged. 

The door suddenly slammed open as Cramer stormed inside and grabbed Perotta’s collar. 

“Where’s Jimmy, you son of a bitch? He’s a federal agent!” Hotch and Morgan followed quickly behind, forcefully restraining and dragging the Baltimore agent out of the room. “I will execute you personally. Personally!”

Gideon slammed the door shut behind them as Perotta let out a smile in his seat. “Baker is a federal agent, I knew it,” he said delightedly, his apparent suspicions confirmed. 

Leaning against the back of the seat in front of him, Gideon ditched the play. “Where is he, Vincent?”

“Hey, Jason,” Perotta ignored the question. “Is it still called ‘paranoid’ if I’m right?” 

Gideon turned and left the interrogation room, leaving behind a satisfied serial killer.

~~~

Hotch looked up to see JJ walking into the office and called her over. “These are the faces of new victims off of the videotapes we found,” she handed the liaison the photos Reid had printed out. “Check with local PDs, see if they have any open homicides or missings that might correspond.”

“Are those rats?” JJ asked, taking a closer look out of morbid curiosity. 

“Yep,” Hotch confirmed, exchanging a disgusted look with her as the others handed over the rest of the photos.

“What are we going to do?” Cramer asked as JJ walked away, calmer than he had been before.

“Well,” Elle said from next to Hotch, “we looked at all the stuff in the van, and besides the videotapes, there’s nothing that interesting.”

“I’ve got Garcia going over the sound on those tapes, trying to isolate the background noise,” Morgan offered. “Maybe something there will help.”

“The good news is, it seems like they were all filmed in the same space, it could be some sort of home base for him?” Reid suggested, fiddling around with a mess of scrap wire. 

“Yeah,” Cramer agreed, “but where is it?” 

Gideon swept a look over the team. “Well, what do we know about Vincent Perotta?” he prompted.

Morgan sighed, crossing his arms. “He’s off the grid. Garcia can’t find a registered phone, utility bill, or home address on this hump.”

“Come on,” Hotch interjected. “Everybody lives somewhere. There’s got to be a paper trail.”

“If there is, we can’t find it,” Reid referred to himself and Garcia, having been working with her on the identity part.

“In this day and age, you can’t live without leaving some sort of trace,” she remained adamant.

“Unless someone pays the bill for you,” Elle countered. 

“What about Russo?” Morgan asked Cramer. “Could he be taking care of him?”

“No,” Cramer answered. “No, no, no. Russo’s not paying anybody’s bills but his own.” 

“Well,” Gideon said, interrupting the silence that had fallen with that dead end. “He has to have a weakness.”

Hotch’s mind latched onto Gideon’s statement, once again going over everything she learned about Perotta—something had been nagging at her since the scrapyard, staying just out of reach.

“It’s in his crime, it’s in his behavior,” Gideon continued.

Morgan shook his head. “You know, something’s just been bothering me. Freddy,” he said to the senior profiler’s ‘go-on’ expression. He looked at the others. “Wasn’t he easy to find? He cut up the body, he removed it from the crime scene, but then he leaves it a couple of blocks away where he’s gotta know we’re going to find it.”

Hotch listened carefully, arranging and rearranging possibilities in her mind as Morgan continued. “It’s the whole reason we were able to connect Perotta to the crime.”

“He made a mistake,” Elle realized.

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed, “he did. He went off-script.”

Cramer looked at them confusedly. “What does that mean?”

“Something knocked him off his game,” Gideon explained, to Morgan’s sound of agreement. “His behavior,” he continued, looking directly at Hotch. “Well, what does he do?” he prompted to the confused silence that fell over the others.

“He tortures,” Cramer answered to Gideon’s raised eyebrow.

“Always?” 

The pieces snapped together in Hotch’s head, painting an eerily familiar situation. “The difference is Mrs. Dimarco,” she said in realization, pushing away the memories that have been dredged up by this case and threatened to swallow her focus.

“Right,” Gideon murmured, sensing that she had figured it out. “Want to finish this?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, turning to walk back into the interrogation room as Gideon directed the others to continue digging.

~~~

“Hey, look who’s here,” Perotta said as she walked in while taking off her suit jacket, leaving Gideon watching outside. “My old friend. Feeling better?”

Hotch walked around and hung the jacket on the back of the chair which she pulled slightly back, not giving anything away in her facial expressions as she sat down. 

“Hey, where’s Jason?” Perotta continued. She deliberately turned her head slightly to the right and crossed her legs, putting the red marks from the hits she had gotten from him and her heels on display under the light. 

“You grew up in a house that looked normal and happy, didn’t you, Vincent?” she asked quietly, making eye contact when he looked back after sending a brief unreadable glance toward her heels.

The hitman let out a sardonic hum. “Did I?” he asked rhetorically.

“But your father beat you every chance he got.”

Perotta briefly closed his eyes and made to sound dismissive. “He smacked me around some, didn’t everybody’s old man?”

Hotch shook her head. “No,” she answered quietly.

“Well, maybe if yours had, you would have learned to fight.” 

She noted the rising sense of discomfort he was exuding, her earlier interaction with Cramer popping up in her mind.  _ It just had to be this and not Gideon’s play that makes him uncomfortable…  _

“Paranoid personalities develop in childhood,” she redirected the subject.

“You know,” he casually said, “you’re saving me thousands of dollars in therapy bills.”

She pushed forward, ignoring how true her words were ringing to her. “And you learned to take the beatings, the abuse, you learned to smile.” She watched Perotta look away. 

“But in the back of your mind you probably thought, ‘one day… ’” she watched as he swallowed, the words getting to him. “‘One day, when I’m big enough…’ So, you were bullied and abused, and you turned into an abuser and a bully; it’s a logical progression.”

“Really?” Perotta asked, trying to sound calm.

“Yeah,” she answered. “Your father beat your mother, too, didn’t he?” That got the most visible reaction out of him and he met her eyes stiffly. 

“My mother’s got nothing to do with this,” he tried to deflect, but she continued on.

“Your mother knew,” she stared evenly at him. “She knew he beat you every day, and she did nothing to help you,” Hotch let her words sink in as his nostrils flared minutely, “and you still loved her.” 

She took a brief pause. “Even though she let you get hurt, you loved her, and I wondered, why? Why didn’t you hate her?” she repeated, watching him carefully. “Then of course, I realized he beat her as much as he beat you.”

Perotta swallowed again. “Don’t talk about my mother,” he said.

“You killed all these people,” Hotch indicated the photos on the board, “hundreds of them, and only one woman. That’s what made you get sloppy, isn't it?” She asked rhetorically, prodding at the visible weakness in his shield. “Killing Mrs. Dimarco was hard. That’s why you did it first and you made it quick. I thought it was to establish dominance, but it wasn’t.”

“He was a bastard, all right?” Perotta snapped, unable to help himself.

“Your father?” 

“I call him Frank, he was a mean son of a bitch. Is that what you want to know?” Hotch didn’t give him an answer, seeing the moment he realized what he let slip and the resignation creeping up in his expression. 

“You were just responding to what you learned, Vincent,” she finally said after a few moments of silence, the raw empathy that came through in her voice surprising both of them. “When you grow up in an environment like that, an extremely violent, abusive household, it’s not surprising that some people grow up to become killers.”

A wave of relief came over her when the door behind Perotta opened. She got up, moving to leave the room and the hitman behind as other agents, presumably called by Gideon, came in to move him elsewhere.

“Some people?” Perotta’s voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned back. 

“What’s that?”

“You said  _ some _ people grow up to become killers.”

Her insides turned cold as she tried to push back a stronger surge of the thoughts and emotions that had fought to come to the surface while she was talking to him. She met his gaze unflinchingly, allowing a bit of the storm inside her to show. 

“And some people grow up to catch them.” Hotch held eye contact for a few seconds longer before leaving the room, grabbing the case file Gideon had left behind along the way. She walked out into the hallway, unconsciously pausing just as Perotta was led out of the interrogation room. 

She turned her head to the hitman, their gazes simultaneously locking together. A strange sense of understanding passed between them, before the moment was broken when he was forced around the corner.

~~~

“Come in,” Hotch looked up from her paperwork as Gideon opened her office door and walked inside, closing it behind him. She met his critical gaze evenly, fully aware that he was profiling her—it wasn’t something a person like Gideon could turn off.

“How are you doing?” he asked her. 

“Better than the last time I got thrown this much off my game,” she answered. It was the truth; the last time she had spiraled out of nowhere was during a late night at the office. He had entered the office to check in with her before he left but instead got attacked by a panicking Hotch who had spent the last ten minutes stuck in her mind.

Hotch let out a shaky sigh and leaned back in her chair while sending a glance towards the bullpen through the mostly closed blinds. “I know what I look like from behind,” she said out of nowhere, brushing a hand through her cropped hair. “I don’t know what he would have done if he had known from the start that I was a woman, but he got distracted when he realized. And that’s the only reason I was able to free myself.” 

Gideon stayed silent, allowing the unit chief to gather her thoughts. “I was about to tell him that, yesterday, after I told him about his treatment of the Dimarcos,” she shook her head, looking down at her desk and twirling her pen. “But his history and behavior were already hitting too close to home, and I felt exposed enough while talking to him. I didn’t want to give him that.”

In the midst of the cold silence, a warm touch on her hand grounded her in the present, like it had done numerous times in the past.

“Neither of us had a healthy or safe childhood in any way, and we both grew up to work in careers that involve killing people for money,” she finally said. “What was so different in our lives that it led us to go in such different directions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on my tumblr: @sodone-withlife


End file.
